The Crown Jewel Series: Candlelit Girl
by broadwaybaby529
Summary: When he showed up that night he failed to notice the sound of the harps or the way the candles seem to dance along to the music. All he knew was the beauty of her face and the stars in her eyes, and that they were meant to be together.


The Crown Jewel Series

**Disclaimer**: Would you believe me if I told you that I own Madame De Pompadour?

**Rated**: M. Take a look at the title.

**A/N: **This is one of what will hopefully be a series. My roommate and I are working on them together. If there are any requests let me know!

**Candlelit Girl**

The full extent of the Doctor's affinity for royalty was fairly unknown by the majority of his companions. Jack had a bit of an inkling; the Doctor had been present at all but one of his stag parties, after all. And River would often wink at him and make comments under her breath about the extreme amount of inbreeding in most royal families might have something to do with him, but those moments were less based on inclination than the knowledge of something she was privy to and for him hadn't happened yet.

On the whole the Doctor's companions were comfortable to know that he enjoyed having helped the royal families, and lived in a blissful ignorance about how he may have helped himself to them as well. Those who knew were those who _knew_ and the Doctor was more than happy to keep it that way.

Some say the story begins in bedchambers of one of the most famous mistresses of all time. Others argue that the Doctor's affairs within Palace and Parliament started long before the reign of Louis XV. In either case, his hand, so to speak, extended further than the confines of his favorite country, reaching colonies, planets and islands of the most extreme diversity.

Whether Versailles factually marks the start of the Doctor's particular affection for the crown or not it is nearly impossible to know. For a man who travels neither forward nor backward but exists in the always, chronology is a tricky friend. But, regardless of previous encounters or the many to follow, the Doctor, the Oncoming Storm, the last of the Time Lords, found himself playing the role of the _other man_ to one of the most famous _other woman_ in all of history.

She's hardly ten when he first ends up in her bedroom. He knows how it sounds, an old man like him intruding into the bedroom of a young girl, but he's a Time Lord and he doesn't see age as having significance, but something that can easily be remedied by a trip in his TARDIS. That's not to say that the first time he met her, when she was such a child, with long string hair and cotton nightgown, that he felt any kind of unorthodox inclination. It's only important to mention the first visit for the sake of understanding that their actual meeting was no fluke. It was an important meeting because, while he couldn't know the future, at least not their particular future, without doubt or question he knew, that night, that she was _special. _

But it is not that night which the Doctor blushes over, when River gives him fish eyed looked in the Portrait Gallery of Paris, and it's not that night that makes the Doctor sweat at the memory of. It's not that night, nor the night he next visited. It's not the one after that and it's certainly not the night he dropped in when she was sixteen, or on her nineteenth birthday. Each of the nights he spent in that room, in that palace, each was so important, so very, very important. But one, more than the rest, was important, because it was the night they admitted how they felt for one another, the first night they touched, the first night they fell into an affair for the history books that no one would ever know about.

"You're back," he hears her voice before he can turn around. This is one of those times when he didn't mean to show up, when the fireplace turns around before he can stop it, and he's in the bed chambers of the mistress of the modern world.

"I always come back to you," he says, stepping forward. He lets his eyes catch hers and realizes, with a bit of surprise, just _how much_ time has passed.

"Sometimes I wonder," she murmurs. She steps even closer towards him and he can smell her lilac and honeysuckle perfume that so perfectly fits in with her, with the beautiful golden gown she's wearing and her crown of curls that no longer falls like scraggly hair down her shoulders.

"You know that it's complicated," he replies. He doesn't want to think about why they can't be together. It's too much for him; it hurts too much for him.

"That doesn't mean I can't miss you," she replies. Her words are sad, but the look on her face is not without a smile, and humor tugs on the corners of her beautifully red lips.

"What would Louis say?" the Doctor asks. They're so very, very close right now. He can see each sparkle in her eyes, like stars she'll never be able to visit. He can practically see her thoughts and he feels secretly elated at that.

"Dance with me," she whispers. The Doctor doesn't feel the need to reply that Louis would _absolutely_ not have said that, but instead puts his hand on her waist and clasps her hand to his, and feels so very, very at home.

He soon realizes that the sound of a harp has been playing the entire time he's been there, and that he's so distracted by the shiny eyes or the sweet non-queen, to even see how the play of strings moves in time to the dancing of golden candles, and it makes so much sense that she's seen in gold and sparkles.

Their feet move in such a delicious balance that it is though they were meant to dance together forever through time.

"Sometimes I wonder what you are thinking," she whispers in his ear. He feels her breath on his neck, the overwhelming knowledge that she _is_ special, that it's not wrong to believe in love and soul mates and miracles when you've such wonderful things as he has.

Later in his life he will have cause to say, _the universe is big, it's vast and complicated, and ridiculous. And sometimes, very rarely, impossible things just happen and we call them miracles._ And he will think back on this night, but for the moment all he can think about is the way that she feels against his body and dances so delightfully with his mind.

"Right now," he replies, brushing his lips against the exposed collarbone, the nape of her neck. She lets her head tilt back, lets her lips part open when he brushes over the sensitive part of her throat. He lets his lips touch the apex of her ear and her neck and murmurs low.

"How you're more beautiful every time I see you," oh he's so grateful that she understands his thoughts, even if she doesn't see all of them. But right now he means beauty in the all encompassing beauty, one that extends past the way her ornate dress fits the body of a grown up woman, or the look in her eyes that promises she's aware of more than she was the last time they met. The beauty of which he speaks is the deep, true beauty of soul, the powerful and strong inner self, and humanism and intelligence and all the factors that contribute to his deep attraction and impossible infatuation.

"Funny," she murmurs back, his lips are still on her neck, still teasing her in unfair distraction and her head is tilted back, her eyes closed. "I think about you all the time."

She lowers her head and opens her glazed eyes to look at him, their contact caught in fiery and intense meeting.

Her fingers brush his chin, the light stubble testing the pad of her thumb and she pulls his face closer to her own. "You consume my mind." Her eyes, those eyes of sparkles and stars, and she knows what she's doing.

The next moment is a blur, when the Doctor can feel her lips on his own, so welcoming, so lovely, so perfectly right, and he feels the walls against his back, and he desperately wants to touch. Her hands are on him, everywhere, but he knows she's playing a game, and he takes her hands and slides them around his shoulders and then he slips around her and pushes her back against the wall. She lets out a laugh and the sound is more magical than anything he's ever heard in all the universes or planets, and he knows that this powerful woman, this woman who ruled the world, desperately wants to lose control to him. He couldn't want anything more, even though he knows it won't be easy.

He kisses her, this time, and the world is pulled from under then. She's not laughing now, but moving with a desperate gyration against his body that puts pressure in all the places that make the Doctor lose control.

She moans into his mouth and he growls, possessive and controlling. Inside of him something stirs, and he needs to touch her, this beautiful woman, his beautiful woman.

"Doctor," she whispers in hushed, panting breaths. "I want you."

He slides his hand around her and lifts her like a bride, carries her like a bride to the grand, four poster bed, and pushes her wrists above her head, all the while kissing her, consuming, as if the two were incapable of stopping.

He nips at her neck again, where he's sure there will be bruises tomorrow, and buries himself in the heaving bosom below her beautiful collarbone. She tries to move, to touch him, control is such a game, oh the game of the power woman, sinful and delicious and without a winner. She wouldn't relinquish control that easily.

"Don't move," he growls in her ear and she shudders below him, letting the much-desired contact wrack her body.

"Try and stop me," she replies with a breathy, but challenging tone. The Doctor slips a hand up her stockings, her high socks end on her thighs and she arches against him, his fingers skirting the edges of her thighs, her desperate want for contact.

"Let me love you," he whispers to her, sliding his fingers where she so needs him to touch. She moves against him and the Doctor would have smiled, has he not been so consumed with his own lust for her, his own awe at the beautiful figure before him.

"I'm yours," she replies. That's all the doctor needs, he slips his fingers over the waist of her panties, slides them down with a tantalizing slowness, tosses them to the floor, disappears below the layers of fabric of that beautiful golden dress.

It doesn't take him long to find what he's looking for. She's wanting for him, so deliciously wanting, and he can't help but need her, need to touch her in all the ways that she hasn't been old enough to understand for so long.

He lets his tongue dart out, lets his breath coast over her bundle of nerves, she bucks against him, calls wildly to the room above him, and there's something so erotic about her being clothed and him being fully clothed and it's positively sinful. He just loves that she's not a gentle girl, just loves how full of passion and need as he is.

He lowers his mouth to her, lets his tongue out again. He finds what he's looking for on the first touch and she screams, lets the whole room reverberate with her sounds pleasure.

He laps once more, twice more, three times more and she comes undone for him, clutches the bed sheets and moves wildly against him, desperate needing. Her body stops vibrating after a moment and the Doctor emerges from under her skirts, climbing up on the bed.

"I'm not done with you yet," he murmurs in her ear. Her skin is slick with a sheen of sweat, the result of her quaking peak mixed with anticipation of what else is in store.

He starts on the ties of her dress, one after the other, each the brushing knuckle of his strong hands ghosting over her bare skin. He rips the bodice open and she gives him a satisfied smile.

"Now you have me naked," she whispers, though she still has her undress on, but he's looking, looking close through that thin white material. He yanks it down, snapping one of the thin straps, and throws it to the side. She smirks, watching her eyes rake over her body, now just a thin lace brace and scrap of panties.

"It's my turn." He's not sure how she manages to flip him, her petite frame ends up on top of his own her naked legs straddling his own. She pulls on his tie, pulls his head to her in a searing connection. The next thing he knows she's got him out of his shirt and vest and shoes and he's just lying there in his trousers and he's not sure how much more he can handle.

Her body moves on top of him and her petite fingers make quick work of his belt, which pulls groans from his body. She slides his pants down, tosses them to the floor with an unceremonious motion and her fingers slip down past the waistband of his silk black shorts. He growls,

"Ren—" her name disappears from his lips when he leans down over him, when she pulls those blasted shorts off of him and lowers her mouth down to him, those cherry lips taking him in and he's lost all thought and semblance of right and good.

"I want you," he manages to pant out, "All of you." She sits up smirking, lords over him, unclasping her bra and tossing it to the side, reveling in the noises that it pulled from him. She wriggles out of her panties, throws them to the floor also, straddles him, her delicate beautiful behind high in the air. She leans over, giving him a chaste kiss, before sliding onto the hard, proud body behind her.

The air is sucked from the room. Their bodies feel so one with each other that its almost as if their pleasure is the same, one orb of perfect feeling. If only she would move.

"I said my turn," she whispers to him, and the Doctor wonders if he said that aloud.

But she doesn't give him a chance to think about it because she _has _started moving, and it's a mounting bliss that he hasn't felt in all the 904 years he's been alive and oh dear god it's glorious. She mewls and he knows she's hit a peak, hit the crest of a wave and the look on her face is enough to send him over as well, and she rides him hard, so hard he's sure she's going to break the bed and it's a mounting glorious and the sound of them hitting perfect is a mixture of each other's names ripping from one another's lips, and they ride the wave to shore, fireworks behind one another's eyes, great explosions that rivaled the super novas of time, and her name is glorious on his lips and he's in such a state of bliss that the only thing that makes it better is the beautiful expression on her sated face.

"I've been wanting to do that for years," she whispers in his ears, as he lifts his arm to let her nuzzle into the crevice of his body.

"So have I," the Doctor responds, and never before have the words been spoken with such truth.

"You know I love you, right?" she whispers, falling asleep, those star eyes closing in post-coital bliss.

"As much as I know that I love you," he murmurs back, but she is already asleep, and he lets himself drift off beside her. There are so many reasons they can't stay like this, but for now it's perfect, no aliens to chase or Kings to appease or countries to run. Right now it's just them, in all of their glory, the Candlelight girl and the Moonlit Man.


End file.
